


Wings

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angry Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-15
Updated: 2004-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco hates Harry for who he is and for everything Harry has taken from him; all Draco wants is to take something back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I won't pretend this is anything more than the gratuitous Quidditch smut it actually is.

The rain returned, harder and more brutal than it had been during the Quidditch match. Drenching, drowning water that fell from the heavy clouds in fat drops, spattering over everything in its path. The rolling fog had chilled it almost to the point of freezing, until the fat drops were hard, bruising and painful when they hit the skin.

The Gryffindors would be partying now, or indulging in whatever passed for a party on the insufferably chivalrous side of the castle. Pumpkin juice, perhaps cookies and biscuits, or whatever else the Weasel could coax out of that house-elf lackey of Potter's. Possibly butterbeer, though it was unlikely. There was not a Gryffindor in the tower industrious enough to get at Filch's stash now that the Weasley Twins had flown the coup.

Crabbe and Goyle were not bright, but they were fairly industrious if given simple, explicit instructions. They knew where Filch's stash of butterbeer was, as well as his stash of firewhisky, and were competent enough to nick from him on a continual basis without getting caught.

Tonight was no exception, especially since Filch would be otherwise occupied. He was likely sharing a tot or two with the staff over what had been, to everyone but the Slytherins, a exhilarating Quidditch match.

The Slytherins would most definitely be drinking tonight, though for entirely different reasons. Where the Gryffindors would be celebrating, the Slytherins would be hosting something more akin to a wake-- drinking to mute out the pain of a severe loss or disappointment.

Draco had no desire to join them in their mourning.

He was still on the Quidditch pitch, with no regard to the fact that he was freezing cold and soaked to the bone. The chill wind nipped at him, and the icy, nearly solid raindrops beat at him, but he welcomed the pain. The cold numbed him in a way alcohol would not, blocking out the pain and disappointment and anger as it sluiced over him.

Draco had touched it first. Potter's hand had reached out a second after his, and Potter's fingers had curled around it a second after his. Potter had pulled at it, trying to yank it away from him. Draco had tightened his hold on it, but Potter's fingers were longer, and he had had a better grip.

As Potter had flown off with his arm raised, Draco had looked down to see the wing of the snitch, fluttering weakly in his hand.

Lightning crackled down; bright, blinding bolts that bathing the pitch in a sickly yellow light. Draco closed his eyes to block it out, but he could still see it, the image imprinted in his mind-- perfect replicas of Potter's scar zigzagging across the sky, mocking him as they went.

The wing was still in his hand as he stood in the pouring rain, crushed in the fist clenched at his side.

Thundered rolled, loud and ominous, and the rain redoubled its efforts. It began pouring from the sky in sheets, rather than drops, coursing over Draco's body in rivers that threatened to drown him. Lightning flashed again, a perfect, pointed bolt that scorched its way across the sky. It came down low, making contact with one of the Quidditch hoops with a deafening crack and a shower of sparks.

Draco watched the light-show with fixed, unblinking eyes for some time. He knew he should go, the weather was telling him to go, but he was unwilling to leave this twisted and demented baptism that was washing away all his emotions.

He was cold and numb and unfeeling, and he wanted to stay that way.

Finally, after a bolt of lightning connected with a hoop just over his head, he turned and started towards the castle. He wanted to stay in the cold and wet, but he had no desire to be seared to a crisp on the Quidditch pitch, on the very spot where Potter had bested him, again.

He felt eyes on him as he walked, a prickling, tickling sensation that coursed up his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As lightning crackled across the sky again and again, he caught a figure lurking in his periphery, lingering in the doorway of one of the Quidditch sheds.

Potter.

Draco found he was not surprised at this, because it was so like Potter-- wordlessly facilitating Draco's fall from grace, then sneaking out to surreptitiously watch him wallow in his own misery. Potter had changed since his final confrontation with Voldemort. His sickeningly noble yet unrepentant heart would not allow for him to gloat verbally or outright, but on the same token, he would not miss out on the opportunity to watch one of his enemies suffer.

They were still enemies.

The end of the war had changed nothing. If anything, Draco hated Potter more now than he had before. For the death of his father. For his mother's Azkaban sentence. For Potter's disgusting perfection and beauty that rivaled Draco's own, because others thought it came from the heart, rather than an accident of birth.

Potter did not speak to him as he approached. He only watched Draco, the flashes in the sky lighting up his green eyes and unreadable expression and that haunting, mocking scar.

Draco paused when he reached him, the rain still cascading over him. The wing in Draco's curled hand twitched feebly, as if responding to Potter, and Draco only crushed it harder between his fingers.

"I hate you," Draco said quietly.

"I know," Potter said simply.

He had wanted more than anything to take the snitch today. Potter had taken so much from him over the years; friendship, his family, his security, the safety of his own mind, and Draco had wanted nothing more than to return the favor, even if it was something small and relatively insignificant.

Only partially aware of what he was doing, he launched himself at Potter, pushing Potter inside the Quidditch shed and tackling him to the ground. Potter obviously expected a fight, because he immediately tried to bury his fist in Draco's stomach. Draco landed on top of him before his hand flew, knocking the air out of him and momentarily stunning him. Draco used the hesitation of his advantage, straddling Potter's body and pinning him to the ground by the shoulders.

"I hate you," Draco hissed again, leaning over him.

Potter went stiff with shock when Draco's lips crashed down on his, and he tried desperately to push Draco away. Draco only kissed him harder, grinding his lips against Potter's until it was almost painful. It was the same sweet, exquisite kind of pain as standing in the rain, though different, burning and hot instead of cold and icy.

Draco nudged at Potter's lips with his tongue, wanting to get inside, wanting to taste him and own him. Potter's mouth opened, more from trying to shout at Draco than a willingness to let Draco inside, but Draco took the opportunity, silencing Potter with his tongue.

He wasn't sure when Potter started responding rather than struggling; but suddenly, Draco was aware that Potter's tongue was sliding against his own, and Potter's hands on his arms were pulling him closer, rather than pushing him away.

A jolt went though him as he realized Potter wanted this, too. It was an idea that was perverse and disgusting, for as much as they hated each other, but it was also exciting, and Draco found he could not touch enough of this body he so loathed.

Draco ripped his mouth away from Potter's to bury them in his neck, biting and sucking and marking the skin he hated and needed at the same time. Potter moaned as Draco's teeth sank into his skin, and the noise, though small, reverberated through Draco's body.

His cock was hard against Potter's hip, so impossibly hard that it hurt. He pushed into Potter, trying to relieve the hot, tight pressure, and Potter bucked up against him, his hands digging into Draco's shoulders and pulling at his hair. Potter's mouth found his again, and his kisses were as desperate and demanding as Draco's had been at the first.

Potter wanted this. Against all rhyme or reason, Potter wanted this, and was going to give it freely, where Draco had intended to take.

He gasped when Draco's hand snaked between them to pull at the button of his trousers, and shuddered when Draco's fingers wrapped around his cock, hard and hot as Draco's own. He stroked Potter's cock with rough, hard movements, a tight curl of fingers and twist of wrist that wrenched loud, guttural cries from Potter's throat.

Draco almost came when Potter's hand slipped between their bodies to rub at the bugle in his Quidditch robes. Potter's fingers were quick and deft, and when they wormed between layers of wet, sodden cloth to take a hold of his cock, the sensation was so perfect Draco didn't know who he hated more, Potter or himself.

He expected it to hurt Potter more when he slipped a finger inside him, with only sweat, saliva and precome to ease the way. Potter doesn't wince or shout, only made a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat that Draco found disturbingly erotic. By the time Draco had three fingers in him Potter was grinding against his hand, trying to impale himself further. When Draco's cock slid in him he made that low, rumbling sound again, but louder, like an animal growling at an enemy.

Potter was hot and tight around him, squeezing and swallowing him whole. He thrust into Potter hard and fast, almost violently, until he thought he might break Potter in half. But Potter moaned, and kissed him harshly and fiercely, and Draco decided that maybe that was exactly what Potter wanted.

"I. Hate. You." Draco choked out, slamming into Potter's body as he spoke.

Draco's vision went white like a flash of the lightning from outside, and he came, cursing and blaspheming and forcing his tongue to mumble more words of hate. Potter came right after him, bathing their stomachs and Draco's hand in hot stickiness, just as Draco had finished filling him from the inside.

He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath before pulling out of Potter and heaving himself to his feet. He fumbled with his trousers and robes as best he could with shaking hands, his eyes never leaving the half-naked boy on the ground before him. Potter's face was unreadable again, the same emotionless expression he had been wearing when Draco first walked up to him.

Potter didn't speak, and neither did Draco.

He only opened his hand as if discarding something, then started for the door without looking back.

If he had, he would have seen Potter smiling, the crushed wing of the snitch laying on his chest.


End file.
